


Caritate

by Living_Underground



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Episode: s08e13 Per Manum, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26883040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_Underground/pseuds/Living_Underground
Summary: The moments following Scully's last chance in Per Manum.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58





	Caritate

**Author's Note:**

> Exercising some demons the other week. Took them for a run. Made them do burpees. They made me write this as punishment because, well, even demons hate HIIT. Maybe next time I'll just try exorcising them. 
> 
> I've been humming and hawing about posting this for about a week. It's a rough one. Or...it was rough to write, anyway. 
> 
> Look, it's not...it's not pretty, or...satisfying or pleasurable or anything like that. It's just...

Her head was buried in his chest, her arms around him as her body wracked with silent sobs. All he could do was rest his cheek on her crown, rub circles on her back, murmur weak consolations.

It was her last attempt. And he’d failed her. Her body failed her. The whole damn universe failed her and he had no idea how to fix it. He doubted he’d be able to.

She was pulling back from him, brushing off his pathetic little ‘Scully…’, reaching for the hem of his sweater, focusing as she rolled it up, tugged it over his arms and head, stretching it when he refused to move whilst sniffing and hiccupping her tears away. ‘Scully, stop.’

She continued anyway, knocking his hands away when they reached for her own, a small ‘please,’ a voice full of desperation as she begged him to ‘please just make me forget?’

He wanted to protest. Wanted to tell her this wasn’t the way. But she was already tugging his belt off and pressing him towards her couch. ‘Scu- bed. Not the couch.’

She ignored him, pushed him down, wiped her eyes and nose on the shoulder of her blazer, knowing full well it will have to be dry-cleaned and not giving a damn as she focused on his zipper. She had her bottom lip trapped between her teeth and was looking anywhere but his face as she yanked on his jeans, letting out a frustrated growl when he refused to help, and eventually she gave up, reaching her cold little hand into his boxers and tugging him out.

‘Scull-‘ another week protestation as he watched her shrug off her blazer and drop her slacks to the floor, leaving her blouse and panties on. ‘This- this isn’t the way to do this. This isn’t going to help-‘

She was on him in an instant, knees straddling his thighs and hand around his neck, the sharp bite of her nails and the pressure of her dexterous, surgeon’s fingers freezing his breath. ‘You don’t get to tell me how to grieve. You don’t get to tell me what will and won’t help,’ her arm was trembling along with her bottom lip, hand slipping down to his shoulder to stabilise herself where she hovered, shaking, over him, breast heaving with rattling breaths. ‘Please, Mulder,’ a whimper, her head dropped to his, foreheads pressed together as her eyes slid shut against tears she refused to shed, her body rocking slowly, a poor attempt at self-soothing. ‘ _Please?_ ’

And, heart breaking just a little bit more, he nodded against her, let his hands shift to her hip and back, the firm weight of them a comfort, he hoped. It was her hand that reached down to her panties, just pushing them aside rather than removing them, reaching for his cock with her other before a hand on her wrist made her pause, ‘condom?’ and then, when he thought he couldn’t feel any more of her pain, he realised what she was doing and he watched her crumple, imploding as she caving in on herself, face turning away from him as she pressed herself down. He could see her jaw clench, furrows of pain on her forehead as she drove herself down and it was all he could do to stay still, to let her control a descent she wasn’t ready for.

It wasn’t going to be pleasurable for either of them, of that he was certain. Of course it wasn’t. It wasn’t meant to be. No. She was punishing herself. Punishing the both of them for their failure. She allowed herself one breath before starting to shift, an agonising grind. On a better day, he couldn’t imagine anything more pleasurable than her slow movements, barely-there rocking, the soft moans and whimpers she emitted as she bared the weight of her head down on his shoulder – could imagine the soft ministrations of her mouth against his neck, a throaty chuckle cut off by an appreciative hum as he hit just the right spot.

But he could feel her tears running down his chest, splashing hot onto his skin and cooling as they cascaded, raindrops on a condensation-fogged window. Could feel her body tighten with sharp little gasps of pain the harder she drove herself forward.

All he could do was hold her, caress her cheek, palm her head, utter soft, soothing, meaningless words of comfort until her rocking ceased completely and she let out her first full-volume sob; a gasp; a blubber; and then a keening moan as she pressed her face to his neck and clutched her arms around his back, clinging on tighter than any limpet might as she cried into him.

He had no idea how long they stayed like that, him still inside of her – never fully hard and getting softer by the minute – but he pressed kisses to her hair, told her it was all going to be okay; she was going to be okay; they were going to be okay. He rocked with her in his arms, a baby heavy and lethargic after nursing.

And when, finally, her choked cries had slowed to the occasional snuffle, he helped her lift herself off of him, wiping her tears away with her final grunt of discomfort. He tucked himself away, scooped her up as he stood, adjusting her into a bridal carry as she hid her face in his chest again, and took her through to her bedroom, laid her on her bed. He found her softest pyjamas, the one’s she wore on her period, with the slightly looser waistband and the warmer, softer flannel compared to her usual silk. Helped her out of her blouse and panties, helped her into her pyjamas. Tucked her in, brushed her tangled hair away from her face, dropped a kiss to her forehead.

When he turned to leave she grasped his hand, murmured a shy but demanding ‘stay.’

‘Okay. I’ll just turn out the lights and then I’ll be back.’

Her face crumpled, she shook her head frantically, her clammy hand crushing his fingers, ‘please don’t go. Not tonight.’

‘Okay, okay, I’m not going anywhere,’ he nodded soothingly, prising her hand from his and letting his jeans fall, closing the door ajar as he passed to block out the light of the living room down the hall, and climbing into bed behind her, wrapping her up tightly as she curled back into him. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Scully. We’ll figure it out, okay? We’ll try different things, look at different options. But I’ll get you a baby. I’ll get you whatever you want.’

They cried themselves to sleep.


End file.
